


Please Don't Let Me Go

by socks_and_a_boot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood Loss, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Cutting, Depression, Father-figures, Gen, Grimmauld Place, Hurt/Comfort, Idk what else to tag if I think of more ill add them, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sirius and Remus care about Harry, basically I'm a depressed piece of shit and this is me venting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-03 10:31:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12746526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socks_and_a_boot/pseuds/socks_and_a_boot
Summary: Begins before the start of fifth year in Grimmauld Place. Harry is collapsing under the pressure of being The Boy Who Lived and begins to experiment with self-harm to cope. Sirius and Remus find out.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, thanks for stopping by(:
> 
> Basically this is me venting about my own struggles with this topic. Most of the actual descriptions of cutting are from my own experience. Please DON'T READ if you will be triggered by graphic depictions of self-harm. If there are any tags you think I should add, please don't hesitate to let me know. 
> 
> Not sure when I'll have the next chapter up, but I'm about to be on Thanksgiving break and will have more time to write then. I'd love feedback, whether you enjoy this or not. 
> 
> socks_and_a_boot

Harry slammed the door of his room in Number 12, Grimmauld Place, leaning back against the wooden surface, wincing at the sharp, stabbing pains in his forehead. An uncontrollable feeling of rage was swelling inside of him, dark and heavy, and he wanted nothing more than to scream and scream until it went away, or at least until he had some understanding of _why_.

Why did he feel this way? Was he going insane? Was he finally losing his mind? Was Dumbledore right in his apparent decision that Harry couldn’t take being involved anymore? Was he breaking?

Another sharp pain shot its way through his skull, and he couldn’t hold back the moan of agony that escaped him, which only fueled his anger even further. His mind was racing, and suddenly through the pain he was thinking everything at once, the injustice of being left clueless in Privet Drive, Pettigrew’s escape, Voldemort’s return, that awful night, Cedric’s blank, unseeing eyes, his parents…

The pain reached its peak, and it was all Harry could do not to scream. He realized that at some point his body had slid down the door until he was sitting against it, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel, until the sting of his fingernails piercing his palm-

“Harry?”

He jerked reflexively away from the door, where Sirius’s voice came from the hallway.

“Harry, are you alright?”

“Y-yeah, yeah, m’alright, just tired,” he stammered, trying to calm his breath.  

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine.” He held his breath, praying Sirius would brush it off.

“Alright… Molly’ll have dinner ready in an hour,” his godfather said tentatively.

“Okay! I’ll be down,” Harry said, trying to sound normal. He heard Sirius shuffle away down the hall and let out a breath of relief. He thought he’d managed to slip upstairs unnoticed, when the pain had started to overwhelm him, but Sirius had obviously sensed something had been wrong. He didn’t want Sirius, or any of the others, to see him like this, weak and broken.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on like this. The past few months had been hell. No sleep, the little sleep he managed to get riddled with nightmares. No word from his friends, the people he called his family… they had just left him there. _You almost died again, watched a friend be murdered in front of you, were tortured by the fully-resurrected maniac who destroyed your family, and they didn’t believe you anyway, but oh well, have a good holiday, see you next year…_

Wearily, Harry wiped the sweat off his brow, but felt a lot more moisture than he expected. Surprised, he looked at his hand and saw his palm covered in red. Blood trickled out of the crescent-shaped imprints his fingernails had left when he’d clenched his fist. Now that he’d noticed, he felt the stinging pain throbbing in his skin.

Cursing under his breath and holding his hand close to his chest, Harry went to his trunk and rifled through his belongings until he found a clean handkerchief. He used it to wipe the blood from his forehead, and then pressed it into his palm, wincing as the sting intensified.

Breathing steadily, and hesitating only for a moment, Harry applied more pressure to the wounds. The pain became sharper, but it was different from the pain that still lingered in his head. It was calming, almost… it sharpened his focus, brought him back to earth, made him feel a little less small. Harry realized he quite enjoyed it.

Gingerly, he ground his thumb into the handkerchief on his palm, and immediately felt the sting spread, inching outward into his fingers. His mind felt clear, his heart raced with the leftover adrenaline… he felt _alive_ again.

The pain itself had peaked, and as the initial shock to his nerves subsided, he came back to himself. Guilt rose in him, and he stiffly wrapped the handkerchief around the width of his hand and worked it into a knot above his thumb.

He’d heard of Muggles his age doing similar things. Once he’d heard Dudley and Pierre laughing about a boy at Smeltings who had left his sleeve rolled up one day, revealing bunches of neat, white lines on his arm. _Disgusting,_ Dudley had said.

Still… it had made him feel so grounded. It had made him feel… _in control._ And that was something he could barely remember ever feeling in his life.

Harry took a deep breath. He glanced at the door, and on instinct, took out his wand and silently locked it. It would be easy enough for someone to unlock it and get in if they really wanted to, but it made him feel more secure.

Rolling up his sleeve, he looked intently at the bare, pale skin inside his elbow.

Was he really going to do this? Harry wasn’t sure why the idea was so appealing, but it was. He liked the idea of having control over whether he did it or not. He liked the thought of having a secret that Sirius and Remus and the others would be furious about if they knew. They all seemed to do nothing but keep secrets from him; why couldn’t he do the same? He had a right.

Steeling his nerve, Harry went back to his trunk, and rummaged until he found the pocket knife Sirius had given him.

He sat on the edge of his bed, rolled up his sleeve once more, and slowly raised the knife to press it into his flesh. He hesitated for only a moment. Gingerly, he pressed and pulled the blade across the inside of his upper arm, not quite hard enough to break skin, but the pressure was enticing. Breathing deeply, he tried it once more over the same spot, pressing a little harder until a sharp sting pulsed underneath his skin.

Panicking, he pulled the blade away quickly. He saw nothing at first. Then, slowly, blood beaded to the surface in tiny drops, the bright red striking against white. Harry watched, fascinated, as it slowly ran into the entire cut, a perfect red line. He raised a finger and gently brushed it across the cut, and stared at the small red smear left on his fingertip.

Harry felt his heart racing in his chest. He had made this. The small pain now burning in his arm had been his own doing. And he was the only one who knew.

It was beautiful.

Suddenly eager, he raised the blade again to a spot right above the first cut, where the blood was gathering a little more thickly now, and dragged it ever so slowly in a line parallel to the first. The sting came more quickly and deeply now, but he expected it this time. The blood filled the wound faster, and gathered into a couple of bigger drops that almost seemed ready to stream down his arm.

Adjusted, Harry placed the knife to his skin for a third time, and then a fourth, and a fifth, until five bright red slices into his flesh were clustered neatly above the crook of his elbow.

The pain had spread from isolated little spots into the entire area surrounded his handiwork, a couple inches in diameter. It burned in his veins, and Harry sat and stared at them for a while, admiring them with a sense of pride.

A knock at the door sent Harry’s heart into his stomach, and he leapt up from the bed and threw his knife back into his trunk. “Just- just a second!” he called in a voice that probably sounded a little manic.

Mind going blank, he gathered himself enough to dab gently at his bleeding arm with the handkerchief still tied around his right hand. Satisfied, he yanked his sleeve back down to his wrist, wincing slightly at the friction of the fabric against his newly-mutilated arm. Catching his breath and trying desperately to replace any evidence on his face of what he’d been doing with polite curiosity, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Ron stood there with a slightly questioning expression. “Mum says dinner’s nearly done… wanted us to help lay the table.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Harry agreed readily, inwardly cursing his excess enthusiasm.

Ron raised an eyebrow. “You alright, mate?”

Harry took a breath and shook his head. “No, yeah, I’m- I’m fine,” he said quickly. “Just tired.”

Ron gave him a once-over, but seemed to take his word for it. “Right, well, might as well get this over with. _Why_ she couldn’t set it with magic, beats me…”

Letting out a silent breath of relief, Harry followed Ron to the stairs, letting the pain in his arm seep into him, looking forward to a normal evening.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this way later than I originally intended, but here it is anyway(: 
> 
> Again, if there are any tags I'm missing, please let me know. 
> 
> ~socks_and_a_boot

After dinner, Harry retreated back upstairs to his room a little earlier than the others. He had tried to join in the conversation during and after dinner, but found it much harder than usual. Fred and George’s jokes didn’t amuse him the way they normally would have. It had been hard to truly make himself care about what any of the others had been saying at all.

He’d glanced up from his plate once and met Sirius’s eyes. He saw the concern in them from across the table and tried to smile, but even he had to admit it must have looked very forced.

Harry closed his door and flopped down onto his bed. He rolled up his left sleeve to look at his new cuts. They were bright red and inflamed; touching them hurt.

Should he try to clean them? The last thing he wanted was to end up with an infection that he wouldn’t know how to take care of on his own; his secret would be out. Maybe if he-

“Harry? Can I come in?”

Yanking his sleeve down, Harry tried to appear visibly relaxed into his mattress. “Yeah, sure,” he called to his godfather.

The door creaked open, and Sirius’s head appeared in the crack, scanning the room before locking onto Harry, laying on his back. He smiled a crooked smile and entered, closing the door quietly behind him. Harry sighed to himself; it was obvious Sirius wanted to talk, and while he would normally be happy to spend some time with his godfather, he really wished Sirius would leave him be.

Sirius sat on the edge of the mattress and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder; he restrained himself from flinching- having Sirius’s hand so close to his self-inflicted wounds made him anxious.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking at Harry intently.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. He was sure his tone did not convey the emotions he wanted it to; he sounded dead to his own ears.

Sirius noticed, too, and looked stern. It didn’t suit him; Sirius was rarely stern about anything.

“That,” he said nodding to Harry’s face. Harry felt his eyebrows relax automatically; he’d been scowling. “Something’s bothering you.”

Harry looked down his nose, unable to look his godfather in the eyes any longer, for fear of giving something away that he didn’t want to. “Nothing,” he tried.

“Your dad,” Sirius said, “looked the exact same way you do now, whenever something was upsetting him. You can’t fool me.”

Frustrated, Harry dropped his head to his pillow and closed his eyes, letting out a sigh.

He trusted Sirius with his life. But Harry hardly trusted himself to navigate his own head these days, full as it was of confusing, painful emotions that he couldn’t seem to understand, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t trust anyone with this.

Not to mention the cutting. While the thought of Sirius’s upset at his harming himself had been appealing during the act itself, it did nothing but twist his stomach into unpleasant knots now, close as Sirius was to discovering his secret.

“Talk to me, Harry,” said Sirius earnestly. “I’ve got quite a bit of experience under my belt, believe it or not. I understand what you’re feeling.” He looked down, and then back at Harry. “With what you went through this year-“

“I’m fine, Sirius,” said Harry abruptly, anxiety coursing through him at the thought of talking about the graveyard. “Really. I’m okay.”

Sirius looked at him intently. “Harry,” he pleaded. “If anyone has a right to not be okay, it’s you. I can only imagine-“

A twinge of pain in Harry’s scar and a rush of anger filled him. “No,” he said harshly, “you can’t.”

Sirius looked taken aback. Harry might have been, too, but the anger coursing through him now was growing, along with the pain in his scar.

Sirius tried again. “I get it Harry-“

“No, you don’t!” Harry shouted, angry at Sirius, angry at the pain in his head, angry at himself, just angry, angry, angry. “How can you? Watching a friend die in front of you, not being able to _do_ anything, being tortured by Voldemort, seeing your dead parents stand next to you, and- and telling you to just run-“

Sirius looked shocked. “Harry-“

“And then no one believes you, everyone thinks you’re crazy-“

“ _Harry-_ “

“And then being tossed back to the Dursleys like it was all _nothing!_ ”

“Harry!” Sirius said loudly, gripping Harry’s shoulders. The pain in Harry’s head gave a sudden, sickening flare.

“Ah!” Harry clapped his hands over his forehead and doubled over in his bed, gasping for air. Sirius had leapt backwards, but rushed toward him again, terror on his face.

“ _Harry!_ What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” He yelled frantically. He had a hand on Harry’s back, but the burning in his skull made it too hard to focus, much less respond to his godfather’s panic.

Until Sirius’s hand gripped him tightly around the arm, right over his cuts.

Harry grabbed his godfather’s wrist and ripped it off of his arm. He scrambled backwards on his bed until he was pressed against the wall. He laid his head back against it, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing deeply through his nose as the stinging in his scar slowly subsided. He fought back nausea.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Sirius on his feet, away from the bed, poised as if he were about to run out of the room. He was staring at Harry in fear, his eyes wide.

“Please just leave me alone,” said Harry quietly, still fighting off the sick feeling.

Sirius made no move except to take a tentative step forward.

“Harry, I-“

“Please!” Harry closed his eyes again.

He heard Sirius breathing heavily, but he didn’t speak again. Harry kept his eyes closed until, finally, he heard his footsteps, and then the door being opened and shut again.

He slumped down against the wall, and held his arm close to his chest. Somehow, the pain of his godfather’s grip on the cuts had hurt worse than his head ever had.


End file.
